Bitter Harvest
by Jul3s
Summary: We reap what we sow... what if there's really a terrorist connection? An AU look at the fallout from "When Worlds Collide".
1. Conviction

This was an impromptu idea that attacked me last weekend, brought to you by too much work, a general lack of sleep and a deep zest to explore the darker side of Don. As a side note, I'm no lawyer, so there might be some factual errors on procedures left. Even the internet isn't always perfectly reliable when it comes to research.

* * *

**Bitter Harvest**

by Jules

_1. Conviction_

Ever since that fateful day back in May, when your brother compromised himself for the sake of a fellow scientist, you can't get rid of the feeling of impending doom. It's not really your nature, you're usually quite optimistic, even though your job throws you curve balls to question your faith on a daily basis. But this whole affair makes you feel unnaturally uncomfortable, and not only because it's family this time. It feels like a sword of Damocles is hovering above you all and you fear it might do irreparable harm once it drops.

The initial accuse of aiding a terrorist against your brother will certainly be dropped from the charges, as it is already clear that Sanjrani isn't a terrorist. But that still leaves the willful violation of the Patriot Act and even though it appears somewhat stupid to yourself as there was no harm done in sending scientific research of how to prevent crop diseases to a country that might harbor terrorists, but Charlie knew sending it remained a federal crime and therefore the trial is inevitable. Not that anyone really thinks it will end with a conviction, but that's how the law works.

Your brother, being even more optimistic than you are, tries to settle out of court nonetheless. His lawyers are good, paid with good money as well, and even though they have to condone the act itself, the whole FBI office is still standing strongly behind him. But his advances are turned down, the official statement being that evidence still needs to be collected and a court date is set for September.

The total lock-down on information leaking has you even more worried. As the leading agent of the investigation, you should be able to access some of the files, but being the brother of the defendant excludes you all the same from the prosecution side. So you try to tap your source at the AUSA, who's also your girlfriend and has helped you in many cases before in a totally unofficial manner. But not this time. She puts you in your place rather harshly, pointing out that she really likes her job and intends to keep it and the sheer intensity of her reply leaves you wondering if she knows something she isn't telling you.

So you're condemned to wait for September like everyone else and you spend your time working. It's a long and hot summer, with gritty cases and every other day or so, depending on how much time you have left, you still show up at your brother's house for dinner or a beer while watching TV. But conversation has dwindled, as the loss of your brother's security clearance prevents you from telling any case-related stories. You have to check your FBI persona at the door now.

It's a painful realization how much you and your brother have bonded over your work as you sip a beer during most of those silent nights, diligently trying to swallow the pain, too. Comments on sports seem to be your only common ground these days, neither of you dares to tread into your respective fields of work anymore, not even here on home territory. Thank God your father is there, trying to lighten up the mood by acting normal, but communication feels just too stilted most of the time.

And there's more, all those unresolved issues you don't even want to touch. Without his involvement into the case, Charlie would have never gotten all the inside information and using them the way he did feels like betrayal to you. At the same time, you feel guilty for pulling him into your line of work to begin with. Lots of conflicting emotions and a big serving of almost child-like petulance on top of it, because your brother is a genius and some part of you thinks he should have seen it all coming on his own.

So one of those nights, you're just coming back from the kitchen into the living room with another beer when you overhear your brother reciting something Professor Abbasi said to your father and that name instantly rings a bell and causes you to almost drop the bottle you're holding. Hoping fervently that you've misheard something, you wait until your father moves upstairs and instantly pounce onto Charlie, inquiring if he's still in contact with Abbasi in Pakistan.

The surprise on your brother's face is so genuine that you're torn between either shaking back sense into him or laughing out loud. He tries to stutter out an explanation of how he tried to keep him updated on Sanjrani's case and how they discussed his research. And you shake him, once, twice, and your face grows so dark that you can see the terror it causes in Charlie all too well.

"Stop it!" you say. "You have no idea what you're getting into."

And you leave after that, too riled up to pretend you can simply overlook what your brother did and knowing that your position requires you to give this new piece of information to the prosecution. But you won't, you can't. This is your brother and he did something endlessly stupid, but it wasn't meant to harm anyone. And neither are you a stranger to omitting facts, you've done so many times before. So you burn fuel with miles of thoughtless driving around, hoping that you really got through to Charlie and that his genius will finally work, preferably into the right direction and with a little more notion of self-preservation.

About a month later, just two weeks shy of the first day of trial, the bombshell drops onto all of you. A suicide bomb ignites in front of the US consulate in Peshawar, Pakistan, killing 14 people and injuring many more. The next day, the identity of the suicide bomber is revealed to the greater public and you watch the news on the TV in the office, your mouth dry and your stomach hollow as they mention his name. Karim Abbasi. You don't need long to connect the dots, still hoping that it's only a coincidence. Half an hour later though, your father calls your cell slightly hysterical, telling you Charlie was brought back in for more questioning. Counter-terrorism informs you that Karim was Professor Muhammad Abbasi's younger brother and all your fears are starting to choke you up at once.

It feels too perfect to be connected, it has to be coincidental. But you know it won't matter, the connection is there and if it were you on the prosecution side, you'd nail it down and make it waterproof as well. Charlie doesn't return home after the questioning and for the first time in 13 years, you stay off work, taking your allotted sick days. You're too much in the spotlight yourself now to be of any use to your team.

You visit Charlie in holding the next day, a shallow-faced and withdrawn shadow of his former self. The severity of the situation has finally sunken in and you feel sorry for your brother and powerless as well. You're reduced to a bystander, all your knowledge is worth nothing. And you want to turn back the time, wondering if you could've done anything to prevent this from happening. It's not like you're responsible for everything your brother ever did in his life, but you will probably never lose that streak of protectiveness you feel towards him.

You stay home the first day of trial, feeling unable to face the scene. The walls of your apartment are closing in on you, but you stay seated on the couch, watching some baseball game with halfhearted interest. Charlie will be disappointed that you didn't show up for moral support, but you're sure your father will understand. He calls in the evening, telling you how the day went, reporting nothing of immediate importance and asks you how you're doing. You can't answer the question truthfully, so you don't.

Standard procedure requires you, as the leading agent on the Sanjrani case which is immediately tied to your brother's case, to appear in court as a witness for the prosecution. It's a rehearsed act, you know what to expect, so you put on your best suit, drive to the court building and dodge the flocks of media in front of it in an experienced manner. You've lost count of how often you've been in here on business and you sure know your way around.

Charlie stares into space with a forlorn expression, but when he sees you entering, his face lights up slightly and he smiles at you. You're unsure if you really earn the trust he so openly displays, but you smile back anyway. There are many people seated in the back along with your father, many familiar faces, everyone rooting for your brother. Not just Amita and Larry, but faculty members and students as well. The case itself is of high interest to the whole scientific community and your brother is well liked and respected among them. Everyone wants to know how it turns out. If you're really true, you don't really want to know, don't even want to be here right now because you fear you won't like the outcome and its consequences.

The counsel for the prosecution is a long-legged blonde with laser-blue eyes and her appearance would turn heads anywhere. You watch her while she introduces the key evidence without a flicker of emotion on her face. Records of Charlie's work email address obtained with a court order right after the suicide attack. There it is, the proof that links Charlie to the attack and as innocuous as those emails sound, all social conversation and carefully worded explanations, one of them also contains a note that the US consulate could help. Oh, Charlie! You grasp the intended meaning immediately, the consulate would have been of help to Sanjrani's family for obtaining more information, but under the given circumstances it simply couldn't have been a more unfortunate phrase.

And you know already that it's over. No one can pull your brother back from the abyss anymore, circumstantial evidence or not. This is not about breaking any restricted communications law anymore, this is about mass murder and terrorist activity and of course they will grasp at any straw they can find. You risk a sideways glance, but Charlie's head is lowered, his face hidden from your view. You don't need to see it to know that he knows as well.

When you're finally called up to the witness stand, the counselor throws you an inquiring look that under different circumstances could probably be interpreted as flirting, but you're smart enough not to underestimate her. She leads you through a basic question and answering section, everything you've been prepared for and when you almost dare to think that you're going to be done soon, she steps over to her table and settles herself almost casually onto its corner.

"Agent Eppes," she asks you with a killer smile, "were you aware of the fact that your brother was still in contact with Professor Abbasi even after his arrest?"

In reality, it's not even two or three seconds, but to you it seems like an eternity as realization slams into you. They've got you, and they've got you good. Damned if you do and damned if you don't—your answer doesn't really matter anymore, they know the truth already. In all likelihood, they've wire-tapped your brother's house. Illegally, you assume, because if they had a court order, they could have simply introduced the recordings as evidence as well. They're going to take Charlie down, making this an exemplary case, and you're going down with him, but they leave it to you to decide which way. If you lie, they will prove it, one way or another, and prosecute you for obstruction of justice, aiding and abetting and perjury. And if you tell the truth, admit to the fact that you've known about those emails and not reported it, they will prosecute you anyway, but your contribution might be used in your favor.

The law you swore to protect so many years ago is biting you in the ass and the irony of it is painful, but fitting. Maybe it was bound to happen. You look at Charlie and your eyes meet over the room, a mixture of sorrow, pain and regret conveyed in that little moment from either side and you clear your throat, your shoulders squaring all on their own as if your body prepares to bear the brunt.

"Yes," you say and your voice sounds much stronger than you actually feel, "I knew about the emails. I told Charlie to break contact the moment I found out about it."

There, it's out and there's no turning back anymore. You hear a sharp intake of breath from the back of the room and you don't need to take a look to see the shocked face of your father.

"Thank you," the counselor replies with another killer smile while her assistant is busily scribbling something down. "No more questions."

You get up, your legs feeling leaden and you step down the aisle without looking left or right, needing all your willpower to resist the urge to run. No one stops you as you leave the courtroom.

Early the next morning, on his third day of trial, your brother is found guilty of conspiracy to terrorism. But you aren't there in person to witness it. After leaving court the afternoon before, you have swung by your office to leave your letter of resignation, badge and weapon on your desk and walked away from your job and your life, leaving the wreckage behind. And while an uproar sweeps through the courtroom and your brother blinks in shock at the verdict, you're sitting in the waiting lounge of the airport with a duffel bag by your feet, sipping coffee and watching the aircrafts out on the runway.

You're heading east. That's all you know about your future right now.

_TBC_

* * *

_I know I'm evil. Want to tell me how much? Feedback is greatly appreciated._


	2. Fractions

Sorry for the long delay since I started this, but if you are a fits and spurs writer like I am, you know how it goes. I took certain liberties with the prison setting in this, because I've never been in one and don't plan to change that. It's fiction after all.

* * *

**Bitter Harvest**

by Jules

_2. Fractions_

"Hey, Smartypants," HG Willis calls over to you as you walk out into the exercise yard. He's a huge hunk of a man, muscled arms covered in tattoos that speak of his Aryan Brotherhood past, his nearly black eyes sitting deep in his fleshy face, giving him a wild and scary appearance. If you'd come across someone like him in your former life, chances were pretty high that you'd probably have tried to scuttle away unnoticed.

"HG," you say, because this isn't your former life, and you bounce the basketball beside you as you approach him and you greet each other by touching knuckles. You both nod, there's nothing that links you two together or gives you common ground to talk about, other than the fact that you both serve time and that you will see each other on a daily basis for the next ten years or so, miracles notwithstanding.

That, and that HG saved you from becoming someone else's bitch your second month around, but you don't really talk about that.

His buddies look at you with the same air of disgust and barely contained aggression they always adopt when you're around, but none of them would ever lay as much as a finger on you. No one wants to be on HG's bad side.

You turn around and continue on to the small basketball court in the corner for your daily solitary game, man against board. You know that everyone else out here watches you and you've been approached a few times with offers for a one on one, because this hour out here is the only time in the day to actually break the loneliness and most of your fellow inmates yearn for contact. But you've politely declined each and every time.

If they caught you in a bad moment and asked you why you choose to spend half of your contact hour every day to play ball on your own, you might even tell them how you could lose yourself in the game, how you could, if disregarding the different ambient sounds and the wall that circled the yard and the armed guards above, simply pretend that you were at home, shooting hoops in front of the garage as you've done countless times ever since you were a little boy.

But you're glad they never ask, because it would rip open wounds that barely scab without anyone prying at them.

When you think back, it's hard to remember any details of those first few weeks you spent here. From the moment the judge uttered the word 'guilty', your mind phased out and life as you perceived it until then stopped and everything at first felt more like a walking nightmare. You hardly remember how the guards escorted you out of the courthouse, your feet shackled so you could only shuffle, hands on your arms as if they really expected you to take flight any moment, your head spinning with the realization that you were actually going to prison.

Those first 30 days spent in solitary confinement have melted together, 23 hours per day staring numbly at walls inside and the mandatory one hour staring numbly at walls outside, counting the steps you could take and calculating them in your mind into actual mileage. _An average step length of 34 inches puts 1863.529 steps into a mile..._ The routine was only broken by the occasional lawyer visit, filled with promises of how they would do their best to appeal your case back into court and how you shouldn't give up, how they tried to have you transferred closer to home. _158400 steps back to Pasadena, it would take only a little more than a day to get there..._

But then they transferred you into the general population and as they walked you down endless corridors to your new cell, your emotions returned full force, because this was even worse than any Hollywood movie could have made you think it was. The same went for Dutch, your new cell mate. You didn't even last a full day before the shit hit the fan, before Dutch and two of his buddies cornered you and if it hadn't been for a quick-acting guard, you'd have been gone by then. Probably still alive, but certainly broken.

A mandatory trip to the hospital ward was immediately followed by yet another move, back into the special housing unit you had just left that morning, back into the miniature white cell with the water stain in the right upper corner and the little security camera in the left. You didn't understand, solitary confinement was usually reserved for new arrivals or offenders and the prison was overfilled to the point of inhumanity, no reasons to warrant you occupying a single cell. But you didn't want to dwell on it any longer than necessary, all you really wanted was getting out of here. You couldn't do this, you simply weren't cut out for this kind of life and even when a judge deemed you capable of planning a terrorist attack, you certainly didn't belong here, no matter what you did wrong.

You didn't sleep that night, but stared at the walls, much like you did during your first month. But something happened during those waking hours while you processed your fears and revisited your actions that had brought you here and when the morning light crept into your cell, a deep conviction had started to grow in you. You knew, in hindsight, that you wouldn't have done anything differently. No matter the outcome, your ethics and beliefs were still the same, they were deeply rooted in your education and your persona. You were still convinced that Phil Sanjrani was innocent, just as much as you were.

So when you sat up the next morning, you simply squared your shoulders and promised yourself that you wouldn't give up. You knew what to fight for and you've never been a quitter in your entire life, at least not when it counted. So if the next decade of your life was meant to be like this, you'd find a way to make it worthwhile. You had to smile at the determination and had no idea where you were drawing it from, but it made you feel good.

The warden called you into his office a few hours later and explained to you in an even and not exactly unfriendly voice that certain security concerns had come up and that you'd be held in solitary confinement under special observation for the time being. He looked at you with an intent stare and you felt like there was a subliminal message in his eyes you should get, but you didn't. He also informed you that the special security measures would prevent you from being assigned to any work detail and that your outside hour would be spent under close surveillance in small groups. With that, he dismissed you.

Back in your cell, you began to realize what a gift had been bestowed onto you. Solitary confinement meant little to no contact with other prisoners, meant being sheltered from the brutal reality out there. No dining halls or community showers, no fear of being attacked. You could do the one hour outside as long as the rest of your day was safe. It would seem like torture to most people, but they weren't you, Charles Edward Eppes, who in his younger days once spent almost 3 months, day and night interspersed with a little sleep, holed up in a garage all on his own with almost no human contact whatsoever trying to solve an unsolvable math problem. You did it then, out of your own volition, and you were sure you could do it again, if maybe not for 10 years but you were willing to find out for how long.

You shake your head for a moment, chasing away the demons of memory, and dribble the ball in front of you before you start with your daily routine. Your whole life has become routine, a comfort pattern, which is good. _Right corner, left corner..._ up at 7am, breakfast at 7:30, _right-right-left-right-left-left_, work on your Cognitive Emergence Theory until noon, lunch, more work, writing letters, outside at 4, dinner at 6, then reading until 10, Tuesday through Friday, over and over again.

And as much as you love and need the repetitive nature of your routines, you cherish the breaks in it. You never immerse yourself in your work on Monday mornings, knowing that your Dad will be there to visit, as early as traffic allows. Three hours with Dad each Monday, needed as much as daily food and water, even if he can never give you a satisfying answer to the question you have to ask each week again, ever since he had to tell you your brother went missing. Not asking would be giving up, but you guess he knows that.

Saturday mornings, Amita will come. You don't need to ask her questions, you just need her to be there, on the other side of the table, just out of reach because holding hands is not allowed during the visit, but her presence alone is enough. She was there to encourage you when you sent off the email that started all this and she's still there week after week, probably until you're being released. You love her and not only for her standing by your side.

Sunday mornings, usually Larry comes to visit. He's being Larry, bouncing theories with you, giving you ideas to work through until the next Sunday, instilling a sense of normalcy into all of this. You never tell him, but you love him as well, for being who he is. But you know each other long enough to know that you don't need to tell him that. He knows.

David and Colby have been there once, too. But it was an awkward visit, two hours of evading those questions you all wanted to discuss but couldn't. David is heading the squad now, growing into the role of a team leader with the help of the others. Liz is back full time as well and they have a new agent as Megan's replacement to break in. They still feel like your family, but the visit highlighted how they are slowly slipping away, how things will never be the same again and it made you sad.

The memory breaks your concentration once again and the ball slips through your fingers, bouncing away. Another inmate you don't even know pounces on to it before you can, but a loud "Hey!" stops him in his tracks. HG has stepped forward a bit and all he needs to do is point a finger at the guy and he throws the ball back to you with a sour expression. It's a scene that reminds you of elementary school, so much that hurts.

HG grins at you and you think back to that day he rescued you, how he bodily removed the three goons that tackled you on your first day out here and bowed down to you, his huge shadow causing you to cower even deeper against the wall.

"You alright, kid?" he asked, reaching out a chubby hand to help you up from the corner you've scampered into. "Name's HG Willis."

"HG Willis?" you spluttered unbelievingly, because a chosen name like that required a certain sense of humor you never thought you'd encounter here.

"Real name's David. That's Jewish. Hate that."

"I'm Jewish," you pointed out in a fit of post-adrenaline hysterics and immediately wanted to bite your tongue, wondering if you ever possessed anything that could pass as instinct of self-preservation.

But HG's face just split into a wide grin that did nothing to make him look any more handsome and he pulled you to your feet and patted your cheek with his free hand.

"Smartypants," he growled, his gravelly voice tinged with amusement, and turned around to face the small group that had gathered behind you. "He's mine," he said and walked away and that was it.

No one ever harassed you since then, not as long as HG was around and you only have other inmates around out here and HG is always there. You never asked him why he protected you then, why he still did it now and he never explained himself either. When you were in first grade and Don was in fifth, you always a had corner of the school yard to yourself to scribble equations onto the concrete during recess. Don always saw to that, ever since that time one of his classmates made fun of you.

With a sad smile, you bounce the ball onto the court and turn away, a clear sign to everyone that you are done for today. You walk back towards the main building while you hear whooping and the sound of the ball bouncing on the court from behind of you to start the customary second half of your hour out here.

The bench closest to the building is always empty, it's in the shadow the main block throws over the yard and there are other benches more exposed to sunlight around. You have a seat, your hands thrust deeply into your pockets and your shoulders hunched forward to ward off the cold and watch the sun setting over the San Gabriel Mountains. You can't do this from your standard 728 cubic feet cell, because it has no window.

The color of the sky changes from yellow to deep orange hues and you imagine what your loved ones on the other side of the mountain range are doing right now. You can do that, because they're there, where they've always been, going on with their lives without you.

But you have no idea where Don is, why your brother resigned and where he disappeared to and how much of all of this is your fault and that hurts more than anything else inside these prison walls ever could.

_TBC_

* * *

_You want to know where Don is? And if Charlie ever gets out of there? We'll find out soon. Feedback is still greatly appreciated._


	3. Home

I'm still no lawyer, so I trust the great wide plains called Internet for my research. It's still fiction, so any mistakes aren't really mistakes, but figments of my imagination. There. :-)

* * *

**Bitter Harvest**

by Jules

_3. Home  
_

Mrs. Libowski waves to you from across the street and you wave back automatically, trying not to see the sorrow in her eyes. You hardly speak with your neighbors anymore, so all you ever receive are those sad looks that either say _'Oh God, that poor man, it's all so horrible.'_ or _'My, isn't he becoming grumpy.'_

You love the neighborhood, love your house, as much as you love your children and maybe even as much as you love your wife, still. It hasn't been yours for a couple of years now, but given how much of the actual maintenance still fell into your lap even after your genius younger son had bought the Craftsman from you, your sense of possession has never altered. You remember clearly how hard you and Margaret worked back then to be able to afford the down payment, both of you determined to get this house. You'd fallen in love with it at the showing, even if both of you knew that it was out of your price range just yet. But you knew you'd get there eventually. And you did. It was a conscious decision to move here, planning the ideal environment for your kids, doing everything you could right to give them the best start possible.

But things have changed and ever since Charlie was convicted, each day holds new unwanted surprises for you that bring your life out of balance. First, there were the reporters flocking outside, trying to get a statement from you, but you were far too preoccupied with finding out where your youngest son was going to be imprisoned and where your oldest son had disappeared to so suddenly that you didn't really notice. You growled something at the first one approaching you when you left the house and continued to do so until they finally stopped showing.

Then came the task of filing through Charlie's mail. Fan mail, hate mail, bills and the letter from CalSci, informing him that they'd end his tenure. It didn't exactly come as a surprise given the circumstances, but when you held it in your hand in writing, an inexplicable anger filled you, so intense that you really wanted to go and smash something to pieces.

As soon as you had a chance to make sure that Charlie was okay... well, not exactly _okay_, but alive and coping with the situation as best he could, you concentrated your efforts on finding out all you could about Don's disappearance. You visited the FBI office, but all they could or were at liberty to tell you was that he resigned. David and Colby looked at you uncomfortably when you walked into their cubicle and you tried not to flinch when you saw Don's desk already cleared.

You visited Robin at her office, too. She still seemed shell-shocked and you believed her when she told you she didn't know anything either. Because you knew she loved your boy so much that you didn't think she could act this devastated if she actually had any information.

The last place to visit was Don's apartment, which looked as if he'd just left it that morning. Used mugs in the sink, unread mail on the counter, dirty laundry on the bedroom floor. You shook your head fondly, wondering when your oldest son had become such a slob and browsed through his closet, not really sure what you expected to find. Most of his clothes were still there, but you noticed a few items missing, none of them dry-cleaning material. You also checked the strongbox on the top shelf, remembering the right combination after a few false tries. You knew what Don kept in here and you found it all, minus his passport.

That was good, it gave you hope. A call to his landlord gave you even more relief, the rent had been paid for six months in advance the day Don had disappeared. He had vanished to parts unknown, but everything looked like he planned to resurface at some point in time.

At this stage, you were even a little impressed with your methodical approach but you still contemplated hiring a private investigator to take this to another level. They had more options, better contacts. But that thought stayed a thought because then the biggest bombshells of all dropped onto you.

CalSci was filing for damages, citing Charlie's breach of duty and the discredit his actions had brought to the university.

His lawyer informed you that their chances were fairly good and given the severity of his crime, the fact that he used university contacts to commit it and how high his income had been, a high six-digit sum wasn't unrealistic. You knew the lawyer was just being direct and honest with you, which you normally prefer in any situation, but you still informed him tersely that you were very much convinced your son didn't commit any crime and hung up on him.

That was just yesterday and your mind has been reeling ever since. You know what you have in savings, you even know what Charlie has and when you add that up and subtract a high six-digit figure, there isn't much left of what you and your son worked hard for. What is supposed to be the savings you have to live on if you don't want to work until your dying day. The savings Charlie will direly need once he's released.

Prices have gone up considerably in this neighborhood since the 70's, so you know that you'd make quite a profit selling it. It's a last resort, as the procedures the university will have to put into motion will take time, but the mere thought of being forced to sell the house to have a more modest roof over your head in your future makes you physically sick.

And all day, your thoughts strayed to that internal place you don't exactly like to visit in good times, but sometimes have to, and certainly hate to visit in bad times. That little place of fantasy in which Margaret is still alive and could deal with all this lawyer gobbledygook, because she sure would be more adept to do so than you are. But you hate yourself for the thought, because the last thing you actually would want is Margaret being alive and having to witness all this.

Your cell phone goes off yet again, much like it did all day and you simply pluck it from your belt to switch it off and throw it onto the passenger seat with disgust. It's that lawyer again, the last person you want to talk to right now. You pull the wheel sharply to the right, your emotions getting the better of you once again, and shoot into your driveway, bringing the car to a sudden stop.

There's someone sitting on your front steps. Someone who looks very familiar.

You blink a couple of times, convinced you've finally reached your personal breaking point which wouldn't even surprise you under these circumstances. But each time you open your eyes, the picture before you stays the same.

You don't remember opening the car door, but you must have because you're now outside, nearly running those last steps, your heart lodged in your throat. But you slow down involuntarily the closer you get, afraid that the reality in front of you might vanish with a pop any minute.

"Donnie?" You don't even recognize the hoarse croak that is your voice, but the figure looks up at the word and you die a little inside at the sight of his face, a face you've feared you'd never see again, a face lined with far more weariness you've ever thought possible.

"Dad," he whispers back, but the sound is muffled against your shoulder as you sink down beside him and pull him close, so close you know it's probably hurting him, but you don't care. Not being able to do exactly what you're doing right now hurt far worse than this ever could.

"Dad," he says again, louder this time, his hand coming up to grab your arm, trying to loosen your hold on him, but you're not ready yet to let go. Maybe you'll never be. Maybe, once you've found your composure somewhere in the turmoil inside, you'll drag him down to the basement and cuff him to the furnace. If that's what it takes to never go through anything like this again.

But in spite of yourself, you do release your stranglehold after a few more seconds and he leans back a bit, not quite out of the embrace, and looks at you. "We gotta get Charlie."

"Get... Charlie?" He isn't making any sense, none of this actually is at the moment, but Don smiles at you, a ghost of his well-familiar smile, and you take anything remotely familiar right now.

"You didn't answer your phone," he says as if it explained everything.

You remember your cell inside the car and the many calls you didn't take today because you didn't feel like you could handle them. And now you're moving again without remembering that you stood up and you're dragging Don along, back to the car.

The ride seems to take forever and every now and then, you sneak a sideways glance at your just returned prodigal son. He stares out the window, his right arm curled against his side in an awkward way, the fingers of his left hand worrying the knot on the drawstring of his sweater. There's certainly a story or two behind this and you're dying to know and afraid to ask all the same.

You exhale slowly and relax your fingers around the steering wheel, restoring circulation after the white-knuckled grip they involuntarily tighten into every few minutes. "What happened?"

Don rolls his head over to look at you and sighs. "Can't talk about it, Dad. Not yet."

"But you will?"

The corners of his mouth seem to twitch slightly upwards and he turns his head away again. "Eventually, yeah," he mutters and everything in his tone suggests that he'd rather not.

This is oddly comforting, because it's always been like this between you and Don. He rarely ever came to you with his problems, you always had to go and prod and pry them out of him. Maybe not an accolade for your parenting skills, but you're used to this.

After a small eternity of bumper to bumper traffic, you swing into the parking lot of the prison. It's not an official visiting day, so it's nearly deserted and you cruise to the spot closest to the entrance. Don doesn't wait a beat, he's out of the car as soon as it stops and you have to hurry after him to catch up. You try not to wince at the stiff way he moves and how he seems to drag his right leg behind in a slight limp. _Oh, Donnie_. This doesn't just stem from sitting in the car too long. It makes you afraid of the stories you'll eventually hear.

Don pulls something out of his inside pocket that looks suspiciously like a badge and presses it against the security window by the entrance. "Special Agent Don Eppes for Warden Harris." You know that voice, the non-nonsense business voice acquired over years of being in charge. The door is buzzed open immediately and you follow him inside, slightly dumbfounded by the scene you just witnessed that simply does not compute with anything else you know. But then, you don't really know anything about what's going on to begin with.

You are lead into a small room off the receiving area and Don turns back to you and pats your shoulder. "It won't take long." And with that, he vanishes through another door and leaves you alone with yourself and your struggling emotions. You sink onto the bench by the small window and wonder if the little creak you just heard came from the decrepit bolts that connect the bench with the wall or from your knees. You feel utterly tired and old right now.

It seems like a year but it's probably closer to ten minutes until Don is back, a tentative smile on his face as he steps over and leans against wall across from you. "They'll bring him out."

"Is he...," you have clear your throat to actually voice the words, "is he free to go?"

"For now."

Far more questions than answers keep you busy on this drizzly late November day, but you've learned to bide your time until you can sort everything out. In the end, and that you are sure of, you'll get all the answers you need. For now, all you can do is hang on, which is hard enough on its own.

Just when the wait seems too long and you're back on your feet and starting to pace the small room, the door opens and a guard escorts Charlie out. Your heart jumps wildly in your chest at the sight of him, free, unshackled and in his own clothes. He looks lost and confused for a moment, mirroring what you feel inside, until his eyes fall on Don. Then, he freezes and a wealth of emotions play over his face and he drops the sports bag he's carrying to the ground and rushes forward.

Don simply moves away from the wall and intercepts the whirlwind. All you can see is a jumble of curly heads and Charlie's hands clenched in the material of Don's sweater as your sons hug each other so tightly that you could swear you hear their bones groan under the impact. Then there's a strangled _"Oh, God"_ and you have an armful of Charlie yourself. Don smiles at you over the curly head pressed deeply into your shoulder, but the light just doesn't reach his eyes.

And it's the little and inane bits of life that suddenly rise to the fore and elicit a chuckle from you as you pull both of your boys close, as close as you can, swearing silently to yourself to never let them go again. You still have your groceries on the backseat, completely forgotten over the excitement of the last two hours. All the frozen goods will have melted by now and most probably, one of your sons will have to sit in a puddle when you ride home.

Home. You really like the sound of that.

_TBC_

* * *

_The boys are back, but there are still sooo many questions left unanswered. We aren't there yet. Not even remotely. Feedback's still appreciated.  
_


	4. Where the heart is not

Thank you all for your patience. Work more or less hijacked me mid-December and I'm just now coming back up for air. It's probably best not to make any predictions, but I really hope to be back on track now.

* * *

**Bitter Harvest**

by Jules

_4. Where the heart is not  
_

An army of dead soldiers litters the couch table in front of you and you squint at the light reflecting off the green glass bottles when you move your head just that way. It's quite possible that you had that one beer too many for you to drive home yourself tonight. But it's not like you're planning to leave any time soon, so there should be ample time to deal with that later.

You're still missing crucial parts of the events leading up to this impromptu party, mainly the how's and why's of having both Eppes brothers safely back home right now. When your cell phone rang merely three hours ago, you and David were still deeply covered in the wrap-up paperwork of your latest case, something you both hate but tackle together in mutual agreement ever since Don had disappeared and David was put in charge. It was nothing you actually had to talk about, all you needed to see was David's face when he came back from the AD's office. They never gave him a choice and ultimately, it will be his neck in the noose if something goes wrong under his command, but you take your share of administrative nightmare and responsibility as if it were yours too.

You're in this together, just like you're sitting side by side on this couch right now and while you can't see your own face, you're pretty sure it mirrors David's expression, a mixture of confusion, careful relaxation thanks to the alcohol and general exhaustion. These last few months have been basically hell; you've been dumped into a new situation without warning, saddled with a newbie you have to mentor and bring up to shape and dealing with the fallout of Charlie's conviction and Don's disappearance _and_ the impact all that has on yourself. It has definitely taken its toll on both of you. In the silent moments that are so rare, you congratulate yourself because you seem to be doing a fine job, with clearance rates only slightly lower in those first few weeks after Don's exit and steadily holding their level ever since. You just wish you'd both get a full night of restful sleep once in a while.

Charlie, sitting on the floor in front of the couch with Amita behind him, her hands securely on his shoulders, is yet again launching into his recount of the events, how he got called into the warden's office and was informed about the immediate stay of sentence he was granted due to new information the prosecution had been handed. It's his fourth or fifth time of telling that story but he yet has to lose the air of incredulity surrounding him. You watch Don as he closes his eyes with a tired smile and rests his head on the back of the couch, right beside Robin's head who's fallen asleep with her arms firmly attached around him and suddenly it hits you with a force that makes it hard to breathe.

This here, all of you together sharing a moment of repose, is one of the things that has been missing. David and you here on this couch, Don and Charlie guarded by their respective girlfriends on the other one, Larry in the chair across and Alan rotating between the kitchen and the living room, too wired still to settle anywhere: this is family or what comes closest to it for you. It's not just Don as a boss and Charlie as a valuable advisor and both of them as friends you've been missing, it's a lot more.

The realization, its intensity and how you took it for granted before almost humbles you right now and you attribute the sudden onslaught of emotion mostly to the alcohol, but ultimately it's true. A home away from home. You can't remember how many evenings you've spent here eating dinner or how often the garage became a substitute office during investigations. Riding on that insight almost like an afterthought, you recall the many times Alan has acted like a father figure in giving advice or providing a steady presence and you internally apologize for thinking the older man might have gone over the edge earlier when he called you to invite you over with barely suppressed giddiness in his voice.

But you're sure you can be excused, because even though you've heard Charlie's side of the story multiple times now, the whole of the events still doesn't compute, but you have your theories and none of them are pretty. It's a strange atmosphere in here, with too many questions left unanswered, but no one seems to dare asking them out of fear of destroying the fickle hold on normalcy just achieved. And the only man who could shed some light on the mystery hasn't spoken yet. You look at Don again, noting the deep lines of weariness in his face and you know the details will be grim. But you're ready to hear the plain truth, no matter how painful it will be. As if sensing your eyes on him, Don's lids open and he holds your gaze for a few moments before he blinks and turns his head away.

"I think we need more beer," he mutters and gently extricates himself from Robin's grasp to rise off the couch. He walks over to the kitchen and you grant him three seconds of a head start before you rise too and follow him.

He's crouching in front of the fridge, stacking beer into it from a case beside him and you know the squeak of the swing door has heralded your entry, but he doesn't acknowledge you at all. Leaning against the wall with your arms crossed over your chest, you watch him, his stiff movements and the way he favors his right side and you know he'll have to give in at some point. You deserve to know the truth and you both know it, after all you've been the triple agent in this outfit and you can smell secrecy from a mile away. But Don doesn't budge and so you decide to venture a guess.

"CIA?"

"Don't."

It's just one word, fired out almost before you were finished and it holds something akin to fear and you feel the hairs on your neck rise at the sound of it. Don slams the fridge closed with distinct finality and grabs four bottles from the counter while kicking the empty case under the table. He turns around and faces you and there is a brief moment in which you think it might be worth the standoff, might be worth to hold your ground and force him to trust you and open up about the whole affair, because you know that if it were you in his shoes, you'd _want_ to talk about it.

But this is Don and his eyes are hard and his face nearly rigid safe the soft clenching of his jaw and you wonder if you just imagined that sliver of fear you thought you'd heard. He squeezes past you without another word or look and you recognize the cue and sigh inwardly. Grabbing the remaining bottles, you return to the living room.

"Hey, David? Tell me about the new girl, Betancourt, right?"

Don has deposited the bottles on the table and taken your seat beside David. Your partner throws you a confused look, caused by Don's sudden segue into acting normally and you just shrug helplessly and move yourself over to the dining table.

This is going to be a long and rocky ride, that much is certain.

The next morning finds you slightly overhung, but you expected that. You did drive yourself home after all, against your better judgment, but you reached a point when you had to get away, had to be able to breathe freely and process and try to hold your own demons you believed long since buried at bay. Now you're on your way into work, stuck in sluggish commuter traffic, and when the newscaster on the radio announces breaking news in a minute, you already know what will come and reach over to raise the volume. But there's nothing in the 90 seconds report you didn't know already after last night and you turn the radio off.

Stepping off the elevator at the bureau half an hour later, you do a double take. Don is back, sitting at his desk as if nothing has happened at all, as if these last three months were a bad dream and for a moment you almost wish they were. Nikki throws you a curious and glance full of questions from where she's sitting behind a pile of files and David is nowhere to be seen, so you proceed past Don's desk to your own with nothing but a terse greeting. He looks at you like he wants to say something, but then just shakes his head.

An eerie almost-silence settles over the office as everyone is busying themselves with work, but you feel the furtive glances thrown into Don's direction as if it were you everyone's staring at. And in a way, they are. Then the elevator dings and you hear a small gasp. As you look up, you see Liz standing there rooted in her spot and inwardly, you wince because you forgot to call her and David probably forgot too and judged by her startled expression this must come as a hell of a shock to her. She steps forward and her soft exclamation of Don's name bounces off the cubicle walls as the whole office has fallen silent once again.

Don's eyes meet hers and a tired smile flashes over his features for the tiniest of moments before the mask is yet again firmly in place. He rises off his chair and meets her one-armed hug with apparent little enthusiasm and turns out of it almost instantly to face the rest of the team.

"Meet me in the conference room in 15 minutes, okay?"

With that, he leaves and once he's out of sight, the noise level inside the office nearly explodes as everyone seems to be rushing over to you and starts pelting you with questions you can't answer either. Liz looks at you with so much confusion that you already fear her reaction once she finds out that you forgot to inform her last night and just hope she'll give you a chance to make it up to her. But for the moment, she's busy trying to fill in Nikki and you're tackling everyone else's concerns. David's arrival a couple of minutes later is a pure blessing and together, you finally manage to send everyone back to their respective desks. With a sigh, you look at your partner and that one look gives you all the answers.

"He's been reinstated?"

"Yep." David sinks into the chair beside you with a groan and props his head onto his fist. "Wright did commend me for my outstanding work though."

You simply shake your head. It really doesn't seem fair, but from your own experience, you know how the bureau works. With another deep sigh, you look at your watch and throw David a glance. "You ready for the big confession?"

"No," he answers with his eyes closed.

"Yeah." You nod your head and reach out a hand for David to grasp and pull him out of his chair. "Me neither."

You're the last to enter the conference room and you take the two remaining seats in the back. Don walks in a minute later and closes the door behind him. He steps up to the front of the room and faces the group and if it were up to you to venture a guess, you'd say he's more nervous now than he was on his first day at this job.

"Okay," he says after a moment, "we're all trained agents, so I don't think we need to beat around the bush. Yes, I was part of an covert operation. No, I can't talk about it yet. Yes, I will, at some point in the future."

He swallows and walks a few steps to the window before turning around again with an unreadable expression. "I'm sorry I had to keep you all out of the loop, but it was part of the plan," he says softly. "If anyone has any problems working with me on this team in the future because of it, now's the time to speak up."

But the room stays blissfully quiet and something akin to relief seems to loosen Don's posture. He clears his throat and leans back against the table behind him. "Thank you. Any questions?"

"What about your brother?" Penny Castillo asks and you can't help but grin because you always suspected she might have a crush on your resident math genius and the slight blush that has crept into her cheeks is more of a proof of that assumption than you ever hoped to get.

"Charlie's out of prison, but that's all I can say right now. Anything else?"

"Yes." Liz' voice is almost painfully laden with worry as she speak up. "Are _you_ alright?"

It's the pivotal question no one dared to ask yet and Don's smile is all but fake as he looks first at her and then at the room at large. "Yeah, I'm okay. Now, can we please go back to work?"

This puts an effective end to the little informational round and Don is the first to leave the room. Slowly, people rise and follow him, their silent chatter trailing away as they get back to their desks. But neither you or David move until everyone's gone.

"Oh my," you say after a while.

"Couldn't have put it better myself," David replies and the tiredness in his voice matches the complete exhaustion you feel.

You turn your head and look at your partner, knowing that this is definitely not the end to this. Not by a long shot.

_TBC_

* * *

_Yep, if Don would get his way, everything would simply go back to normal. But of course, this wouldn't be a story of mine now if Don would get his way, right? Yeah, I thought you'd agree. :-)_


End file.
